


Eurydice Bound (The Unicorn Remyth)

by wisdomeagle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alley Sex, Community: remixredux07, Multi, Post-Canon, Pretentious, Rainer Maria Rilke, Remix, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-29
Updated: 2007-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisdomeagle/pseuds/wisdomeagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In fact, he never was. But since they loved him, a pure beast came to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eurydice Bound (The Unicorn Remyth)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yhlee (etothey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etothey/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Eurydice](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/5282) by etothey. 



Oh this is the creature that doesn't exist.  
They didn't know that, besides  
\-- its neck, its bearing, and its stride,  
even to the light of its calm gaze -- they loved it.

In fact, it never was. But since they loved  
it, a pure beast came to be. They always allowed  
room. And in that room, clear and unlocked,  
it freely raised its head and barely needed

to be. They didn't feed it with corn,  
but always with the chance that it might  
be. And this gave the creature such power,

it grew one horn out of its brow. One horn.  
It came here to a virgin, all white --  
and was in the mirror-silver and in her. 

\- Rainer Maria Rilke. Sonnets to Orpheus: Second Series. Fourth poem. Translated by A. Poulin.

In life, death, almost as often in dreams, Faith has found herself here, Angel's face there, leering with a thousand different looks -- his feigned Angelus face, crueler than she'd imagined -- a lie, and again that true face, brutal fangs, cocky grin -- but he's never worn any face as naked or as brutalized as this new one, bright lips, worn eyes, and a mouth bent for a kiss, unsmiling. She knows the lies that Angelus's mocking smile holds, and knows this Angel's real, and despairing.

"You shouldn't've come," he says, and though the whisper's quiet as smoke, Faith feels on fire, and she shouldn't, pressed against a brick wall by a vampire in a white shirt, leering -- that's the old Faith, who would've gladly watched Buffy burn, the old Faith, who would've lit the fire if the Mayor handed her a match, the old Faith, who, raked over hot coals, felt what everyone deserved was all she carried, strength in her pocket, pure vengeance. The old Faith, who worshiped chaos and laughed as she held her hips cockeyed to vampires', who'd never gone to hell, never seen a town demolished in unseeing fire, never glimpsed Los Angeles in the smoggy, sunless morning after the battle, would never see the truth in Angel's eyes.

She shrugs uneasily, twitching away from his reproof. Her muscles are tight and she itches under her skin for the fight she came here to end. The witches were sure; the signs were clear. And there's nothing left but Angel's haunted eyes.

"Now that you're here," he says, without seduction, as if he's never seduced, as if he's never looked a woman in the eye and wanted anything but to be demolished in her.

"Slayer and vampire," she says, laughing without mirth, watching carefully the shadows where any beast might still lurk. It's not too early in the morning for resurrection. "We could give that a tumble."

"We could." He's watching the shadows too, for chaos's other disciples, who come for the carnage, the banquet of death. She's carefully not in love with him; every moment that he's tender and close enough to brush her lips with love, she looks away, has for years, refusing to love the man Buffy can't have, removing herself forcefully from a triangle that can only culminate in one kind of surrender.

So if her shirt's open, breast exposed, (drink me and be done with it and we can both say we had the experience) it's not love that's called her here, a Slayer without a stake, a claim, or a purpose. Except, he's a vampire, and something clutches in her gut when she breathes him. Her hand closes over his wrist; she pulls him closer. His hips twitch.

Maybe it was this simple, always, to abandon everything to the dark. Maybe Angel's yellow eyes always had that peculiar look; maybe her scent as she rises towards a man is always this pungent. Maybe any graveyard or mausoleum, museum or home, would serve, any remnant of any fractured city. The veiny fault lines of L.A. mirror her face in the dark. She lets him kiss her longer than is safe, letting the stale air of his useless lungs drown in her until she can't see anything except his eyes, dilating, the yellow retracting to pure white, her face reflected back to her, purer, somehow, in his eyes.

He pulls away when she can't breathe. "You should've come." Over her shoulder she sees, and she clenches her fists before she can stop, her red fingernails drawing blood from Angel's wrist. Wesley. "Illyria said you weren't coming."

Wesley's not a ghost, she knows; no ghost's face would be so bright; no ghost would respond like Wes does to the beckoning twist of Faith's hips, the gesture that's lain tight in her loins for years. He's staring at her breasts but speaks to Angel, muttering.

It doesn't matter. Who's Illyria, and what _did_ happen to detain Wesley on his way to Angel's final showdown? She doesn't care. Against the grimace of Wesley's face and the sudden fear in Angel's, she doesn't care. Her fingers flicker over Angel's, idly toying with the blood, and she stares past him at Wesley's awkward arousal, his confused response to them, together.

In another life, he holds a crossbow now, and drops it at the sight of them. In another life, he snaps cuffs on her wrist, miserably trying to delay her descent; in another life Angel bites, hard, draws blood and silent screams before draining Wesley entirely. In another life, Faith's smile is bright enough to burn as she kisses bruises into Wesley's smooth-shaved cheek.

"Wesley." She wants to tease him, truly now, to have him, tied and innocent, at her mercy, which wouldn't fail this time. She would make no mistake. He'd be unblemished when she gave him to Angel. They couldn't hurt each other, not when they're already...

His name has strangled in her throat. She tries again. "Wesley. Tell him, Angel."

"Wesley." Angel's voice is wounded, and his skin is growing, if possible, paler. Her arousal ebbs and ebbs, subsides at last into the empty pit at the core of her cunt, the familiar ache of lost opportunities and wild nights that collapse in the bluster of dawn. This morning, growing colder, won't relinquish its sun to the dusty sky. In a world where the First comes dressed like daddy, it's hard to believe that any death is forever, but if it were, Angel's face would be its monument.

For one unconfused moment, she wants to stay here, the three of them, to build a tent to protect Angel if the sun ever returns, to make a home. They'd each hold one of Wesley's wrists, and bind him till he promised to stay; they'd hold him, cuffed, and have him, bury him alive.

For Wesley's not a ghost; he can't've _died_ , and this doesn't smell like sorcery. He's real, substantial; she can see him wanting, the same man who stood in a library once, announcing his name like it was messianic. She wanted him, or maybe imagined wanting him, the days when Buffy was too bright to tolerate and Giles too arch and only Wes's unspeakable arrogance reminded her of who she was. She wanted to scar him, wanted to own him, wanted to rescue him, and he drowned her (both of them) with Orpheus. She wanted him, and Angel too, and together they love him enough to recall him to bright being.


End file.
